the question isn’t why was he such an embarrassing artist and so terrible to you, but why did you let such an embarrassing terrible person inside you? you were so worried about what he was worried about, his peepee. standing curved over, knees bent, wearing his birthday suit and a hemp choker. a catch for the ages, the paragon.

the ladies before he existed and the ladies born after his ashes turn to ashes–they don’t know what they were missing with his humped back, bare feet on the tile and the vanity lights half burned out.

understandably, it’s hard to know what you’re doing with your life when you’re concerned with how much your pubic hair has grown back. you can’t see at all. i mean see the situation with him for what it is, but also the pubic hair that’s hiding from the mirror hung on the back of the bedroom door. and if you try and lay on your back on the bed halfway across the room, if you try to crane up and see your valley’s forest layout in the mirror, you won’t get the details you’re looking for, only an image of a wounded animal knocked on its back with its legs curled up, rocking itself to get back on its feet.

he was such an unrepentant pyschopath it’s a wonder the universe has forgiven you at all for shtupping so low. even all these years later you’re still trying to figure out what about all that could have possibly felt right.

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